


Origins

by MommaUrsa



Series: Lil' Matches AU [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Child Abuse, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:25:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MommaUrsa/pseuds/MommaUrsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every story needs a beginning, even if the beginning is marked with blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origins

            He’d had his eyes on this child for a while. There was something about the way the Flying Grayson boy was able to glide through the air without any fear that had attracted his attention. The boy didn’t need a safety net. All he needed were his parents and the bars to guide him through the air.

            Matches wanted that for himself.

            He was in the crowd, waiting for the final act. He watched as the Flying Graysons soared through the air without a net below to soften their fall—to save them from their inevitable death.

            Everyone in the crowd waited with bated breath, waiting to see the Graysons make it through their act unscathed. Matches was waiting for the line to snap and for the two adults to fall to their deaths, leaving the child alone in this cruel world. Once they were gone, the child would be free for him to take. No one would look for Dick Grayson, and if they did, they’d never suspect to look for him at Matches Malone’s side.

            When the ropes snapped, there was screaming. People panicked as the bodies fell into a mangled heap with broken bones and limbs twisted in unnatural angles. The shrill cries cut through the air as the little stared at his parent’s bodies from atop the trapeze. One of the ropes continued to swing toward him, beckoning him to jump on and finish the act that had been started. He could hear sobbing—not from the child, but from the people around him—and the boy’s lip quivered at the sight, body finally collapsing before he could drag himself toward the ladder.

            Matches watched as the boy scrambled to the bodies. He could see the child shudder as he choked on his sobs. Tears were streaming down the kid’s face, and Matches felt  _proud_  of his work. He would swoop in with promises of getting revenge for the kid, of tracking down the Graysons’ murderer and taking the man out. The kid would never suspect that Matches had orchestrated the whole thing.

——

            If you were going to steal from someone, you didn’t steal from Matches Malone. That was common knowledge in Crime Alley. If you were caught stealing from Matches Malone by one of his goons, you would get a bullet through the head, no questions asked. If it were by Malone  _himself_? Well, Jason didn’t want to know what the man could do with those knives he was so fond of. A death that intimate was not something Jason wanted anything to do with, but death by starving seemed a billion times worse.

            He stared blankly at the tires stacked next to his mattress. A cigarette was loosely hanging from his lips, smoke drifting up toward the leaky ceiling. It was chilly in his room, even with the vest and long sleeved shirt. His thin blanket barely kept any warmth in; it was only useful to make sure he didn’t freeze to death in the middle of the night.

            He leaned back against the wall, eyes still focused on the pile of tires. They would fetch a pretty price the next day. The money wouldn’t last long—it never did—but it meant he could eat for a few days without having to sell himself.  _That_  was something he wasn’t proud of, but he did what he had to, to survive.

            When his door swung open, Jason was quick to jump up. His lips pursed, firmly holding the cigarette as his fists flew up in defense. A man, tall and broad and dressed in a pressed suit, stepped in with a scowl. He eyed the man and in a matter of seconds it clicked that this was none other than Matches Malone. The sudden realization had his heart hammering as he tried to flee. He raced for the window, but the man’s long strides made it easy for Matches to catch up to him. The man yanked him back, and then lifted his body up.

            Jason’s limbs were flying as he fought hard to slip away, but Matches was big and he was _strong_. It was easy for the man to back him up against the door and pin his body against it. Strong hands gripped the front of the teen’s red shirt, holding him up as he glared down at the teenager.

            “I didn’t do nothin’!” Jason was scowling up at the man, curling his fingers around thick wrists. He swallowed and began to wiggle. “Let me go, you big  _boob_ ,” he spat, legs kicking at the man’s shins.

            Matches sat Jason on the ground before moving his hands to grip the teen’s shoulders, holding him still in front of the man. Thick fingers dug into soft flesh, leaving behind bruises that would last  _if_  he even survived. He was going to fight, but he knew his chances of slipping away were slim. Matches was a ruthless killer. Him and his gang were to be feared—

            “You took my tires, you little brat,” the man sneered. “You’ve got guts.”

            Jason’s brows knitted together as the man slowly pulled his hands away. He plucked the cigarette from Jason’s lips before stomping it out. He took a few steps back, and then pulled a cigar from his coat pocket. He lit it, and then shoved his hands into his pocket as he eyed the teenager. The lingering stare had Jason’s cheeks heating up. Barely managing to hold the man’s gaze, he shifted uncomfortably. He was not about to back down from this man.

            “You’ve got two options, kid,” Matches began after blowing out rings of smoke. He held the cigar with one hand while the other remained stuffed in the pocket of his slacks. “You can take those tires and sell them. That’ll feed you for, what, a month?” His brow rose at the end of the question.

            Jason remained silent until he realized the question wasn’t rhetorical. He quickly shrugged, and then nodded. “I guess- You ain’t gonna kill me?”

            Matches barked out a laugh as his lips quirked into a wide grin that exposed his surprisingly white teeth. The predatory expression had Jason fidgeting. He had to shove his own hands into his pockets before kicking one of his feet. He finally looked away, lips turning down into a scowl.

            “Relax. I don’t intend to hurt you, kid,” Matches snorted. “It takes guts for a street rat to steal from me and get away with it.”

            Jason bit down on his lip. “What’s the other option?”

            “A real businessman. I like that,” Matches chortled before taking a long drag of the cigar. He kept it in his mouth as he walked around the small room. He inspected the walls and took in each poster that the teen had hung up. They were all tattered and stained as if the kid had found them in dumpsters. Matches was sure that was exactly where everything in the room had come from, if it wasn’t stolen or bought with dirty money.

            He plucked the cigar from his lips and blew out more smoke. “If you come with me, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. You just need to put the tires back on my car.”

            Jason scowled and quickly lifted his gaze so he could glare at the man. “What do expect outta me? Jason Todd’s his own man. I can take care of myself jus’ fine without you expectin’ something out of me, old man,” he snapped. He pulled his hands from his pockets as he took a few steps back. He glanced over at his tires, and then crossed his arms. He wasn’t about to lose his tires or his life.

            Matches chuckled again before turning to face the teenager. “I told you what I expect. I expect you to return my damn tires if you’re comin’ with me. I’ll feed and house you if you put the wheels back on. I don’t want nothin’ else, brat,” he explained as he inspected his cigar nonchalantly. “I like having brats around the house, and Dickie’s grown up. You know Dickie—everyone knows Dickie.”

            Jason nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he replied. His brows furrowed as he fell silent. He really had to think about his options. Selling the tires would help him for a little while, but he was being offered a lifetime of comforts. The man didn’t seem to want to use him, which meant he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to anymore.

            However…Matches was a skeezy guy. Jason wasn’t sure how long he’d be kept alive if he was with the man. Dickie’d been around for a while. Everyone who knew Matches knew about Dickie. He was the kid that Matches took in, the reason why Matches spared kids, the reason why Jason had the courage to jack tires from Matches and no one else.

            Matches was soft on kids.

            Jason shuffled over to the pile of tires. He picked one up, and then rolled it over to the door before turning to face Matches. “It’s gonna take a while, Mr. Malone,” he huffed.

            Matches puffed out more smoke. “You’ve got all the time in the world, kid.”

——

            Cass  _liked_  Matches. When she first met him, she had taken to him right away. She knew he was hiding something—something bad—but it intrigued her. It made her seek him out when David wasn’t looking. 

            Matches was a lot like David. There was something cruel about him that reminded her of her surrogate father. Sure, she loved David. He took care of her, held her, and showed her how to fight, but Matches…well, Matches treated her better. With David—with her father—it was all training and rough nudges, but with Matches, there were gentle touches to her neck and cheek. He would hold her hand—hold her—tightly and coo at her in soothing tones.

            David only ever communicated in the way he taught her – through body language – but Matches always  _spoke_  to her. If it weren’t for Matches, she never would have known such a sense of security could come from noise. She felt safe around him. She could tell that he adored her in a way that David would never be capable of.

            When Matches proposed that she take David out so she could become  _Matches’_  little girl, Cass couldn’t say no.

            The plan had been simple. David trusted Cass and that trust brought about his downfall. He never saw it coming. He didn’t expect Matches to pull the knife and stab him repeatedly, nor did he see Cass lift the gun when he turned his back on her. She could see David’s anger as he tried to attack  _her_ Matches, and she had to shoot the two bullets into the back of her previous father’s skull.

            She kept the gun aimed at the corpse as her small body shook. Her brows were knitted together and her eyes were watering. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Matches while she simply felt the loss. She may have been all for it, but this was still someone who took care of her.

            Before the tears could fall, Matches scooped her up into his strong arms. He held her close, cradling her gently and whispering soothing words to her. She didn’t know what the words were, but his expression told her that he wanted her to be calm, that he loved her more than David ever would.

            Cass had to look away from the body. She buried her face in Matches chest as her little fingers clutched onto his suit. This would be her daddy from now on.

——

            They had been…well, he wasn’t quite sure what to call them. They were more than acquaintances – he knew more about them than they would care for him to know – but they had never used the word  _friend_ to describe him. His relationship with the two boys was questionable at best, although not as questionable as the relationship the boys had with their… _father_? Caretaker? Tim wasn’t quite sure what to call Matches Malone. All he knew was that the man was not good.

            He knew things about Matches that the two older boys could only dream of. He had been there when the Flying Graysons fell. He had seen Dick – Dickie – fly free for the last time before Matches took everything from him.

            He liked Dick and he liked Jason. He met them at the playground when he was younger. He had watched them from faraway, just observing until Jason caught him. He had been afraid of the older boy. He knew of the teenager’s tendency to cross-dress and he had seen the teen’s other side, the bratty, rude side that cared about no one but Matches.

            He had quickly learned that Jason – not Baby Doll, that was a false persona – was kind. He was brutal, sure, and angry – the teenager had every right to be – but kind. The world had dished out nothing but shit to the fifteen-year-old and he finally got something good, albeit (and these were Jason’s words, never Tim’s)  _fucked up_. It was almost like his anger had some roots in guilt.

            Dick, on the other hand, Tim had come to find, was just as fantastic. He was kind and caring. He wasn’t quite the big brother type (at least, not towards Jason, but he quickly became like a big brother to Tim). He cared about Jason, sure, but there was something between them that was a bit…off. Tim couldn’t figure out what it was at first, until he figured out exactly what sort of relationship the two had with Matches.

            Tim knew things about Matches that neither of his acquaintances knew. He knew about how Matches helped Cassandra Malone kill her father and he had uncovered Matches’ involvement in the death of the Flying Graysons.

            Tim was smart, but he wasn’t good at covering his tracks and that was what got him into trouble.

            He knew something was wrong the moment he walked through the door. It was silent, as it usually was, but there was a bad feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. The air was heavy with something—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

            He dropped his schoolbag to the ground before slowly making his way towards the living room. He froze once he entered the room, jaw falling open and brows furrowing. He tried to speak, but his mind was still trying to process the sight before him.

            The air was heavy with the stench of blood. Red had spilled down from the bodies and onto the couch, staining the family’s sofa. The cushions dipped beneath the weight of the upright corpses, their expressions vacant with their open mouths and eyes. There was no life, no warmth, and no love. All that remained were the carcasses of the people that used to care for him.

            Their bodies were covered in laceration, wrists darkened with bruises, clothing torn and stained crimson. Each of their throats had been slit, the cut just deep enough to bleed out. They had been tied and murdered in their home.

            The tears were pouring from his eyes and his body was shaking, but he still couldn’t bring himself to step forward or say a word. It wasn’t until he felt a firm hand on his shoulder followed by the press of a hard body against his that he jumped and let out a loud sob.

            “Even towards the end, they refused to say anything about you,” the man said airily as he gave Tim’s shoulder a squeeze. “If you say  _anything_  to Dickie or Baby Doll, you’ll join them.”

            Tim slowly turned to look up at Matches whose eyes were locked on the two corpses. “Say your goodbyes, Timmy, and pack your things.”

——

            Damian’s eyes were wide, brows knitted together as his small lips pressed into a hard line. The toddler was too young to understand what was happening beyond the fact that he did not like the position his mother was in. He stared at the knife pressed to his mother’s throat, watching as the light from overhead glinted off the metal. He stared the small line of red that was beginning to form as a bead of crimson slowly dribbled down his mother’s slender neck, dripping down to stain her white blouse. He could see red blooming around her stomach, centering at the man’s hand pressed against the front of her button-up, just above her high-waisted pants.

            “It’s okay, habibi,” Talia murmured. “I love you.”

            A jerk of the man’s hand left a jagged, crimson edge behind the silver, cutting across her throat from ear to ear and exposing what was behind the woman’s tight, dark skin. More red began to spill forth as his mother’s body relaxed in the man’s arms. The stranger – the bad man – released her body. She fell against the floor with a light thud. Her head rolled, empty eyes locking onto the crib as her body fell still in an unnatural position.

            Damian could see the warmth and something else – something he couldn’t quite place– leave, though her hollow eyes remained trained on him. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from the empty eyes until he began climbing out of the crib, escaping like he often did when he wanted to slip into his mother’s room to sleep against her warm body.

            He refused to look up at the man as he slowly stumbled across the room. “Mama,” he called, his voice soft. He swallowed, and then dropped to his knees so he could push on his mother’s body. She was still warm, but her eyes were cold.

            “Mama, mama,” he called again. He shook her body a few times before putting his hands on the red marks. He tried to press the jagged edges together, as if it would bring back whatever it was that left her.

            He latched onto her blouse, leaving little red handprints as the man yanked him off the ground. “No!” He tried to cling to the woman, but his stained hands were pried free. He tried to reach for his mother’s shirt, but the man had him wrapped in strong arms.

            “You’ll be quiet,” the man growled. The stern tone had the child’s lip quivering as he stared up at the stranger with wide, watery eyes. Damian sniffed and wiped his nose with a hand, smearing red on his upper lip.

            The man chuckled softly, and then used his own shirt to wipe some of the red from the toddler’s face. “I’m taking you home, son. You’ll go by Li’l Matches from now on,” he murmured, and then pressed his lips to the child’s head.

            Damian’s nose wrinkled as he shifted and tried to reach for his mother again. “Mama,” he called, his chubby fingers extending as far as they could go. “Mama.”

            He kept chanting the word as Matches began to step away. His footsteps echoed behind them, lingering with the woman’s motionless body.

 


End file.
